To Those Who Ever Wondered
by Pinguin1993
Summary: Life could be just fine and peachy if it weren't for the fact that all the evidence points to John being a mass murderer, except that John knows nothing about it. Ch.7: In which Sherlock is irritable and John has enough of it.
1. Miscommunication

**A/N: **_Hello, everybody. I am the Penguin, and my quest is to write. I've come across the SH'11 universe only days ago, watching the episodes ever since. (I want to kill them for this cliffhanger in the big game. Waiting another 5 month? KIDDING?) In any case I love the characters enough to actually start a drabble collection about them._

_Please note that those are not actual 100-word-drabbles. They are just short. Also they are not sorted; they will be randomly placed within the three episodes, through they might be put in order later on. We'll see. There most likely won't be any slashy kind of slash, but probably some blood as it is involved in the episodes. Well, enough talking already. Relax and enjoy._

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><p><strong>Description: <strong>_He saw right away something was off. But they were colleagues, not friends, and because Sherlock didn't tell, John didn't ask. / He didn't want to admit it, but he hat put his trust in a complete stranger. And because John didn't ask, Sherlock didn't tell.  
>Set in episode 2 after Sherlock is attacked in Soo's flat.<em>

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><p><strong>Miscommunication<strong>

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><p>John had the first suspicion when he heard Sherlock's voice, but he didn't know for sure until the detective started to cough.<p>

He isn't the greatest observer. Has never been, probably won't be anytime soon. He will heartily agree that whatever it is his flatmate is doing with his mind is beyond him, and that he is happy this way. But doctor John Watson wouldn't be the war veteran- the war _survivor_- that he is if he hadn't got sharp senses to his aid.

He noticed the way Sherlock's hair was tousled, the dust moths the carpet left in them. He didn't miss the way the scarf was somehow tighter around the detective's neck, effectively covering up his throat. He saw the man's hand twitch up to said neck before it ended up straightening his coat collar instead.

Oh yes, John saw.

He had been throttled before. He knew about the breathlessness that made you gasp for air after every sentence. He had felt it, the vocal chords struggling to readjust to the newfound room of a recently released throat, causing the voice to falter and scratch like sand paper on stone. He had experienced it beforehand, many a time, though he never talked about it if not explicitely asked.

However, none of this explained why the younger man didn't say a word about the incident. And it most definitely didn't explain why Sherlock, the great fearless Sherlock Holmes, seemed unable to meet his eyes.

But this was how it was, and because it was this way, John didn't ask.

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><p>Sherlock could tell right away that John knew.<p>

He noticed the man's blue eyes follow his hand up to his hand- darn his bloody self-control, had the incident left him this shaken- and though he quickly settled on straightening his scarf, he saw the flicker of suspicion in the doctor's eyes. He knew only too well that by the time the sun would set, his pale skin would bear the tell-tale throttle marks dark and blue for everyone to see. The idea of hiding something in his own flat upset him. He would do it anyway.

A strange numbness had settled deep within his chest, and it wasn't from the loss of air. It was rather a twinge of uneasiness in the closeness of his companion, not quite fear yet, but something he'd have to figure out rather sooner or later.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's first consulting detective, was afraid that his deductions had been incorrect and that now he'd pay for his mistake with his life. Because after merely weeks of getting to know each other, he relied on John Watson enough to call out to him in what could have been his last seconds of life. Because he relied on this stranger, relied on his loyalty enough to want him by his side in the face of danger. John had shot a man to save his life, and Sherlock had taken it for granted he'd do it again.

A million questions buzzed through his mind- questions he didn't ask before but now thought that maybe he should have. All the whos and whens and whys, gnawing on him, distracting him.

John had been right there on the other side of the door. John and the gun in his coat's inner pocket. John, who had refused to take Mycroft's money. John who had killed for him without a moment's notice had been right there and done nothing to help him. Because surely he must've heard, surely he couldn't have been this absorbed in his own thoughts, surely he must have... must have what, exactly?

Sherlock managed to put the thoughts away for now, bringing his attention back to the case at hand. But he could not bring himself to look at his colleague.

John didn't ask. And Sherlock didn't tell.


	2. Appraisals

**A/N: **_Thank you so much for reviewing, CountryGrl. So glad someone read and liked it. :)  
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><p><strong>Description: <strong>_No one had warned him of anything like this. This wasn't normal. John wasn't sure if "brilliant" was enough to describe this man. / Sherlock wondered what the other might think, and then wondered when he had started to wonder about such trivial matters as feelings.  
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_Set in the middle of Episode 1, after Sherlock explaines how he knows what he knows about John.  
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><p><strong>Appraisals<strong>

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><p>There was a short pause as they walked during which John tried to organize his thoughts. It was no use.<p>

He hadn't known what to expect. No one had warned him of anything like _this. _This wasn't normal. "Brilliant" seemed like an insult for a mind as exceptional as this. He needed a new word. Something between the lines of _genius _and _scaring the shit out of me_.

"That was amazing", he finally said, before the moment to talk at all had passed entirely. It felt lame. _He_ felt lame. But his words were rewarded by a brief flicker of surprise on Sherlock's face. "You think so?"

_What else would it be? _"Of course it was. It was extraordinary." He scoffed, wracking his mind for a better expression. "It was _quite... _extraordinary." Well. Not exactly what he'd been searching for, but the best he could think of at the moment. He was _almost_ offended by the obvious gap between their minds. But most of all, he was ashamed.

Sherlock's next question caught him by surprise, effectively ripping him out of his thoughts.

"That's not what people normally say." The younger man didn't look at him while he spoke, staring ahead instead. _Maybe they have a wider vocabulary to their aid than I do, _John thought. He'd almost missed another one of those _somethings _in Sherlock's eyes- surprise quickly replaced by blank steel. He swallowed his comment in favour of keeping the conversation going.

"What do people normally say?"

His question hung in the air for one long second, then another one. The detective's steps did not falter, but John suddenly gained the impression that maybe everyone else's would have. Instead, Sherlock finally turned around, a wide grin on his face that died before it could reach his bright grey eyes.

"Piss off!" He laughed, a roar that surprised the doctor enough to join in. Piss off? London really had changed if that was what people said to a man who was able to look at them and tell them their life story. Well. Maybe not that incomprehensible then. Maybe people were just people when he had wished for angels after coming back home.

They walked the rest of the way absorbed in their own thoughts. But it felt... nice. Comfortable, actually. Finally, something happened to John Watson.

And it had a great potential of becoming amazing.

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><p>There was a short pause as they walked, just long enough for Sherlock to wonder if he'd said too much already. All the while, a wild mixture of emotions raged across the doctor's round face, brightening his blue eyes up with fire. Sherlock barely suppressed a sigh. <em>He's just like an open book. <em>

However, when John finally answered, he actually managed to surprise the detective.

"That was amazing", he said, and this time his eyes shone with nothing but honesty. Sherlock frowned. _A soldier who believes in the truth. How unsettling. _"You think so?", he asked even though he already knew the man was firmly convinced of what he just said. It was all right there in his face for the world to read. It just wasn't _logical._

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary." The older man scoffed, obviously meaning to say something else, before he settled with repeating his statement. "It was _quite... _extraordinary."

_A person with a sharp mind and senses dulled by years of violence and stupidity. And now he's rusty. It's a shame, really. _Sherlock frowned, focussing on the gravel in front of him instead of John's face. He didn't want to admit it, but this praise coming from a stranger was actually... nice. _This is irritating._ He shook his head in a brief moment of confusion.

"That's not what people normally say."

There was another silence. This time, Sherlock did not dare look at the shorter man. In spite of his curiosity, he felt almost afraid. Instead, he briefly wondered what the other might think, and then he wondered when he had started to wonder about such trivial matters as feelings.

"What do people normally say?"

Again, not what he had expected. He blinked, fishing for an emotion that seemed appropiate for what he was about to say. Considered offense, gritted his teeth upon hurt. Settled on laughter. "Piss off!", he said with what he hoped was a grin and then roared out his best laugh. He saw John flinch before he joined in. 

_I surprised him. _That bettered the detective's mood considerably. _This is actually fun. This man is as readable as an open book, and yet he remains a mystery to me. Unsettling. _He allowed himself a small, honest smile. _Intriguing.  
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They walked the rest of the way absorbed in their own thoughts, with Sherlock Holmes pondering on the puzzler the world had thrown at him. Well, at least this acquaintance was bound to be interesting.

It even had the potential to become good.


	3. Suspicion

**A/N: **_Snowracer- thank you so~ much. It means a lot to me when people like my writing. My English is still improving, I hope. Sometimes it's just so hard to write characters like Sherlock with a vocabulary as limited and basic as mine... So thaaanks *_* Writing that, everyone please feel free to point out grammatical or spelling errors as this helps me to get better. :)  
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_Set in Episode 2 when John finds the sign in the library first.  
>This is somehow turning into a plot. Strange. Not unwelcome, but definitely strange.<br>_

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><p><strong>Description: <strong>_Although, John mused as he watched his friend, there was something strange to him lately. The younger man's expression was almost... guarded? / This was getting out of hand, Sherlock thought. John was his friend, goddamnit. For whatever that was worth...  
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><p><strong>Suspicion<strong>

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><p><em>Book book book book book.<em> John followed the black coat as his colleague raced through the rows of shelves like a dog that had found its trail. He almost bumped into the younger man as Sherlock suddenly stopped and started to flip through the titles in front of him, but he managed to steady himself and regain composure quickly. No need to be embarrassed. He let his mind wander off, leaving the thinking to the man who had probably figured it all out already anyway.

"Somewhere here, it has to be..."

He didn't exactly know why, but the shelf to his left captured his attention. He'd been in libraries often enough during his time as a medicine student, and later because he liked to read a good book once in a while but rarely had the money to actually buy one. _And something is off here_, he thought, leaning in for a better look.

He found out the reason for his uncomfortableness quickly enough- some books had been placed incorrectly. That bugged him for a reason, and he pulled out said works to put them where they belonged while Sherlock did... well, whatever it was he did.

His hand stilled over the spine of a thin magazine that had been sitting next to his goal and had now slipped to one side. There was a blink of utter silence. Then everything happened at once.

"Sherlock."

He didn't raise his voice, but the detective was by his side immediately. He stared at the yellow spot that was barely visible on the back wall of the shelf with wide eyes, seemingly at a loss of words (and John had to admit he kind of enjoyed that) before he suddenly _ripped _out the books in a feverish frenzy. John was careful to catch them all before they could fall to the ground, but he too was anxious to finally see the next clue.

Then it was there, bright yellow and foreign and _ugly. _John hated it immediately. The sign sat there as if it wanted to bite him, almost maliciously so. Even though it was only smeared spray pant, it seemed so _evil _that the doctor had to fight the urge to take a step back.

He also had no idea what it meant. But he was sure that Sherlock would figure it out.

Although, he silently mused after a sideway glance at his friend, there was something strange to the detective lately. The younger man's expression was almost... _guarded_ even as he stared at the sign, lips moving with unspoken thoughts. Maybe he'd get back on that later. No, he had to talk about that for sure. But not now.

First of all they had a murderer to catch. That was his top priority. Whatever it was Sherlock had, it would have to wait.

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><p><em>Book book book not the right one where is the right one?<em> Sherlock raced through the rows of bookshelves with John in hot pursuit. He quickly figured out the system this library used to organize the works they stored and turned sharp right at the next corner. _Finally._ When he stopped, John almost ran into him. He didn't comment on that, but he stored the information away for later. _Clumsy when in thought,_ or something. Didn't matter right now. He had to find the clue. Solve the puzzle. Had to play the game.

It had to be here somewhere. He was vaguely aware that he muttered unintelligible words while he searched, but he didn't care much either way. And he stayed that centered on his work until one small word ripped him out of it with a force that seemed almost brutal.

"Sherlock."

John's voice was flat, almost pressed. Sherlock's mind was dangerously blank as he turned to look at what his colleague had found.

Between the books on his right, a yellow spot shimmered on the white paintwork.

The next clue. John had found the next clue, with an ease that was frightening to the detective almost as much as the signs themselves were. How could he just see through the riddle this fast when Sherlock himself hadn't? How was that possible? He knew, knew with _certainity _that he was smarter than John; this wasn't about being rude or mean, it was just plain _true. _And still the blond man that waited next to him, a heap of books in his arms, had seen what he himself had not.

John, who hadn't helped him with the attacker in that Asian girl's flat. John who had found him and the evil cabbie before the police had and killed the man without a moment's hesitation. John, who lived with him every day and wrote a blog about their lives for the world to read.

This was getting out of hand. John was his _friend, _goddamnit, for whatever that was worth. Besides, thinking about trivialities like this only took his mind off the important things. Like catching the murderer. Like _winning the game._

Still, when he turned his head to look at the doctor and found those blue eyes staring at the yellow sign in nothing short of _hatred_, Sherlock couldn't help the smallest twinge of _something _in his chest. Something he hadn't felt for weeks, and never this strong. _Fear. _He was afraid of John Watson, and that in itself was worse than a murder could possibly ever be.


	4. Expressions

**A/N: **_Huge thanks to Snowracer, CountryGrl and DreamBrother! Your comments are hot steamy love to me! :)  
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><p><strong>Description: <strong>_He didn't say the _'moron' _out loud. He'd just have to count on Sherlock to figure them out himself from the look on John's face. / When he saw the photograph his companion had taken, he was about ready to break into tears. He just hoped he managed to hide his face away before John could see it._

_Set in Episode 2 when they go looking for yellow paint along the railway line.  
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><p><strong>Expressions<br>**

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><p>John was running again, down the railway line, jumping over the iron beams as if he had never done anything else in his life. Curse Sherlock and his deductions about psychosomatic injuries and his brilliance concerning the brains of suspects. If the man didn't answer his phone soon, John'd go home.<p>

He found the detective measuring up one of the old freight cars that were situated everywhere next to the railway line. "Answer your phone, I've been calling ya!" He shouted out, recieving only a blank stare in return. He took in another sharp gulp of breath before he continued. "I found it."

And suddenly they were running again, back to where he'd just come from, Sherlock close enough behind him to feel the huffs of warm breath against his skin. John suppressed a tiny smirk of triumph before he raised his flashlight to illuminate... a perfectly ordinary, black stone wall.

_No, no no no no! _"It's been painted over." _Has to be._ He stumbled, rightening himself almost angrily, before he touched the wall. Black paint, fresh enough to stick to the tips of his fingers. _NO. _"I... I don't understand. It was right here, a whole lotta graffiti..." His voice trailed off into the blue night air, now leaving room for Sherlock's in its place.

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it", the detective muttered. In once quick stride, he was standing next to the doctor, gripping the sides of his head and squeezing the man's eyes shut. "What..." John struggled to free himself, but he could have as well tried to break iron bars with his bare hands. "Sherlock, what are you doing of all..."

He was interrupted by the younger man's voice that was holding an urgency it only seldomly possessed. "John. I need you to think, need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

Seeing as his eyes were already closed- or not _seeing _at all, for that matter- John was already getting majorly annoyed. "Sherlock, listen-" But there was no reasoning with the man. He kept the doctor's head in his firm grip. "What are you doing?"

Finally, his face was released, but before he could work with that, John found that now his arms were wrapped in those fingers of steel and he was spun around in circles, _round and round around the garden, _while Sherlock spun with him and _kept ranting for God's sake didn't this man ever stop?_ "I need you to maximise your visual memory", Sherlock muttered and spun them even faster. Despite his military training, John was starting to feel slightly nauseaus. He had absolutely no clue why he had to go through the main wash for this.

"Can you picture it?" John would have rolled his eyes but he feared for his stomach. "Yes", he answered. "Can you remember all of it?" This time he _did _roll his eyes. "_Yes._"

But Sherlock wasn't done yet. "How much of it? Are you _sure _you can remember it?"

"Well I am _sure_, don't worry!" John shouted, now rigorously pissed off by this ridiculous behaviour. And he was _still_ spun around. "Because the average human memory on visual patterns is only 62% accurate..." Sherlock finally stopped the circle they were drawing into the grit and John fought against the man's grip. "Don't worry, I remember all of it! Or at least I _would_, if I could get to my _phone_! I took a picture of it!"

He didn't say the _moron _out loud, nor the various other swear words that came to his mind in that moment. He'd just have to count on Sherlock to be able to _deduce _them from the look on John's face.

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><p>He was searching for anything along the old, rusty railway cars when John came running towards him. "Answer your phone, I've been calling ya!" The blond man shouted angrily. Sherlock simply dismissed it <em>(as if he could concentrate on something as trivial as phone calls right now)<em> and turned back to face the metal in front of him again when the doctor's next words stopped him dead in his tracks. (_What a pun,_ part of him mused; the rest was screaming in terror at what he heard.) "I found it."

They raced back, Sherlock in hot pursuit, and though his feet always found a safe spot to land on between the railway bars, his mind was otherwisely occupied. _Again. He found the clues first again. God, what is happening here?_

Until the beam of John's flashlight hit a black wall and they stopped.

_Painted over, _Sherlock thought while he blocked out John's ranting. _For God's sake, the paint's not even dry. Just what is going on here, exactly? _"Somebody doesn't want me to see it", he voiced his thoughts before an idea struck him. He still had the bottle of yellow spray pant he found earlier. It was reckless, of course, to rely on something as unstable and incorrect as the brain of an ordinary human. _Or wasn't it?_ He was just so very, very confused.

He took John's head in his hands, forcing him to close his eyes. Maybe the pressure would increase the brain activity. Maybe it'd kill the brain cells. Oh well, nothing to do about that until later. "John", he said urgently, dismissing the doctor's ongoing rant, "John. I need you to think. I need you to _concentrate._ Close your eyes." John seemed about to say something, but Sherlock had already released his head and was now holding his arms in a firm grip. Slowly at first, then faster and faster he spun around, taking John with him. _Maybe the movement will help the blood to circulate faster. Maybe it will make us sick. Well, we'll find out that one soon enough, won't we._

"I need you to maximise your visual memory", the detective said while he felt his dark curls bounce up and down on his own head. "Can you picture it?" He didn't even wait for the answer, instead spinning even faster. "Can you remember all of it?" He raised his voice here, "How much of it? Are you _sure _you can remember it?"

_"_Well I _am _sure, don't worry!" John shouted. It almost made Sherlock stop. Almost. But he kept spinning, this time for his own benefit as well, because his own thoughts were going into a direction that he didn't like. No, he didn't like it at all. "Because", he said and took a deep breath, "the _average _human memory of visual patterns is only 62% accurate."

His own rate was of course much higher, at about 97%, but he didn't feel the need to delve into the subject further right now. He didn't know himself why he started this in the first place. No, that wasn't true. He knew exactly why. Because if John remembered the pattern as clearly as he claimed, his visual memory had to be as sharp as Sherlock's own, and that meant... _No. No no no no no._

"Don't worry!", John shouted angrily and finally managed to break the grip that, as the detective distinctly noted, he had tightened considerably during their conversation. "I remember all of it!" And that was when Sherlock's very soul seemed to freeze over and he let go.

When he saw the photograph his companion had taken, he was about ready to break into tears. He just hoped he managed to hide his face away before John, dear old _friend _John, could see it.


	5. Development

**A/N: **_Thank you all so much, those who reviewed, but also those who just read and enjoy. I love you all so much. I don't have time to tell you each seperately, but I love you insanely.  
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><p><strong>Description: <strong>_Just when he was thinking about getting rid of this chair and kicking them all in the head, Sherlock made his appearance. / And when the adrenaline wore off, John was still there. Loyal, firm, dirty, hole-in-the-head John._

_Set in Episode 2 after John and Sarah are taken hostage by those people from the "Circus"._

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><p><strong>Development<strong>

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><p>When he woke, the first thing on his mind was pain. Quite literally. He felt as if his head were splitting in halves with a massive headache.<p>

The second thought was much simpler to cope with and all the more agonizing at the same time. Sherlock. Where was Sherlock?

He turned his face to the side, blinked through the darkness- when had it gotten so dark, had the lights gone out?- and his gaze fell on Sarah, tied to a chair and gagged and staring back at him with tears in her eyes.

Oh.

_Oh._

It was all coming back to him then in a flash: the man at the door, the blow to the head. The circus- had it really been the same day? But this wasn't the circus, it wasn't even a building, it seemed more like a massive tunnel once he took a good look around. Sewers? _Never this big_. Tube then, maybe. But there were no railway bars to be seen.

It didn't matter much either way. Sherlock would find them here, wherever_ here_ happened to be.

_If he cared enough to go looking in the first place. If he even came home tonight._ John felt a sudden dread slowly crawling up his spine and fought it back down. He could handle this. He was a soldier, for heaven's sake. He would get them out of here if he had to.

His hands behind the chair were steady when he took a deep breath.

Then they appeared, those circus people, the men and woman from before. They were dressed more serious now, all suits and black cloth and sunglasses. It looked a little ridiculous in the flickering light of the torches, but John knew better than to tell them that.

They stared at him for a few moments, then started to ask him questions. It was just one really, but over and over again, and everything went downhill from there because apparently, he dealed with complete idiots. Again.

„I am not Sherlock Holmes, and I swear to you, I don't know what you want!" He shouted, now almost desperate, but they didn't believe him. This was quickly becoming utterly frustrating. He was so used to Sherlock reading the truth right off his face that normalty just didn't do it for him anymore. And now they threatened poor Sarah, too. What a way to spend a date, he thought and that he'd probably never get involved with her further after this. He was almost ashamed of himself, but then again this was just so_ ridiculous_ that he could hardly help it really.

Just when he was thinking about just getting rid of this chair and kicking them all in the head, Sherlock finally made his appearance.

There was a lot of shouting after that, and screaming, and gunshots and more shouting and_ he couldn't get his hands free_, he couldn't get off this _chair_ and _Sarah was going to get shot for God's sake_ but Sherlock was busier mocking their attackers than doing anything about it and John was by himself again, just him against death, as it so often had been in the past. For some reason, that only fuelled him now. When he managed to somehow kick the murderous weapon away from the woman from where he was lying on the floor, he felt positively glorious. Of course his head still hurt and the dirt rubbing into his eyes didn't help and _why couldn't Sherlock hurry up damn it _but he still felt glorious.

He noted that there had been something strange about Sherlock's attitude towards him only when it was suddenly gone, later that evening, but he didn't care much. Let the Holmes do the Holmes thing. All he wanted was a little bit of peace, and for a change, he actually got some for a while.

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><p>When he had returned with the deciphred message and found the flat empty, that was when the bad part of the evening had started.<p>

His thoughts raced ahead of his legs as he made a dash to the location described on the photo in his hands- fast enought to work out a couple of possible scenarios he was likely to encounter. The thoughts were almost too fast for his liking, which was surprising. He didn't know what he feared most- finding John hurt or possibly dead, finding John being Moriatry- or not finding John at all. He didn't know. The rest of the way was spent wondering when he had become so dependent on the man.

He knew that he was probably running right into a trap. Then again, wasn't he always? It was the adrenaline that kept him going after all, he mused, and then he was there and turned his mind on other things.

When he found John (and Sarah, about whom he had forgotten completely up to this point), bound to chairs and held quite literally at gunpoint, the only emotion he was aware of was relief. _Unsettling_. He thought about stepping in, then decided against it. Not just yet.

There was blood on John's face, he noticed with a frown. They had had to knock him out then. It didn't look staged from where he was seated, but then again the tunnel was poorly lit and there was some space between them. Still the man seemed very much alive and himself, no permanent damage done then. That was good. The thought made him frown before he dismissed it as unimportant. It was far more interesting to watch what was going on down there.

He wondered again if he should interfere, then stayed put again instead. If he had one chance to find out whether this was part of the Game or not, it had come now, and he wouldn't neglect it.

Minutes later he had difficulties to hold back a chuckle. _They had mistaken the_ doctor_ for _him_? Seriously?_ But yes, they seemed completely sure, even quoted some lines John was supposed to have said at some point- „I'm the great Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone" or something trivial of the like. (Still he wondered- when had that been? And why would John say something like this?) And they kept questioninig the medic where the treasure was. _Those imbeciles_. The true Sherlock Holmes was right here, right behind them, and they didn't get it. He was almost convinced by now that these men (and women) weren't involved with Moriarty. They were just too stupid to believe. Surely they _must _know what he looked like?

The questioning went for a while, and all the time John refused to give in, just repeated his first statement over and over- „I'm not him, I don't have what you want". He didn't falter, not even when they threatened the woman. Sherlock leaned in more closely to get a better look at that. This was interesting. John could have easily fooled those idiots with a nice little lie- „I hid it, I'll tell you where if you let us leave", something of the like. But he didn't. Maybe it was just his former experience with criminals that told him it was useless, but Sherlock wasn't too sure about that.

Maybe it was just what he called 'moral standards' then? Well, in any case it proved one thing: No matter what these want-to-be criminals said or did, John did not lie.

That was when Sherlock finally stepped out of his hiding place, raised his head, and his voice along with it, and things got a little crazy after that, and then things calmed down again and there was a lot of noise and an almost disappointing lack of innovation and cleverness involved. And when the adrenaline wore off and his mind cleared, John was still there. Loyal, firm, dirty, hole-in-the-head John.

That was when Sherlock thought the better of it all and decided to let the matter go. This man could not be _Mor_- could not be a _criminal._ He just didn't have it in him.

There was that strange feeling of relief again, but Sherlock filed it away for later, for once just revveling in the quiet and peace of the remaining night.


	6. Experiment

**A/N: **_The chapters are getting longer and longer. Not that I mind. :D  
>Also, Huge thanks (yes, capital H) to all of "my" readers and, even more so, reviewers out there! I don't have the time or muse to respond to each of you personally, though it's "only 10 reviews" so far, as Pholo pointed out (I love you, seriously, just for that bit. And freaking out on me. And all that. Thanks so much). I might somewhen, though, because you are amazing, all of you.<br>Read&Relax.  
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><p><strong>Description:<strong>_ Sherlock was 99% sure now that John was not an evil serial killer, but he didn't like uncertainty, and he felt it was his utmost duty to confirm his investigations from time to time. / John went and locked the weapon away in his desk drawer. It was no use hiding it, nor was the lock, but he felt better when he did it._

_Set at the beginning of Episode 3, The Great Game, when Sherlock is bored.  
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><p><strong>Experiment<strong>

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><p>He took two more shots at the wall and then leaned back, closing his eyes. His left hand, the one that held the gun, went limp for exactly two seconds, then the front door opened along with Sherlock's eyes.<p>

For one more second, he mentally debated what to do. Then he raised the gun and fired. _Once. Twice._ Three times, and then John was there in the doorway, looking absolutely incredulous.

"What the _hell _are you doing?"

"Bored", Sherlock muttered, but he had to smile. He was 99% sure now that John was not an evil serial killer, but he didn't like uncertainty, and he felt it was his utmost duty as a detective to confirm his investigations from time to time. It was an experiment, a test.

Also, it was just too much fun to see John surprised.

"What?" The man came closer now, after placing his shoes neatly underneath the wardrobe. Sherlock deliberately wiped the grin off his face before he got up and switched the gun to his right hand. "Bored, bored, _bored_!" He shouted, underlining each word with another shot before he tossed the browning into John's waiting hands. He stopped in front of the smiling face he had drawn up on the wall with the remains of the yellow spray paint they'd found a few weeks ago. It felt good to shoot at it. _They_ had used the paint to personally insult him, and now he'd made it pay. Yes, it felt_ very good_ indeed.

Sherlock's hand came up to touch one of the bullet holes. "I wonder what's gotten into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them."

John, who had put the weapon away in one of the desk drawers, looked up. "So you take it out on the wall?" His voice was resigned. It said _I don't really want to know, _but Sherlock answered anyway. "Oh, the wall had it coming", he sighed and he meant it. After all, it wasn't _him_ who looked all dark and depressing and _blocked his sight_, goddamnit.

He flopped backwards unceremoniously, but still managed to somewhat gracefully land on the sofa. He was very proud of his ability to look graceful. He also shouldn't be thinking about that. "What about that Russian case?" John asked, and Sherlock had to hold back another sigh. This case had been so incredibly _boring. _Not worth his time. What _were _those imbeciles thinking, calling him in for something like _that_? He stretched out and wrestled his hands free of his dressing gown to place them on his chest. Then he yawned. John was in the kitchen. Hopefully there'd be tea soon.

Three steps to the table, a pause. John looked at his experiments. Probably made a face, turned left. Four more steps to reach the fridge. No tea, then. "Anything edible?" The doctor called, but he wasn't expecting an answer and Sherlock didn't give him one. The sound of the fridge door opening, a surprised shout, fridge door closing. Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. Why would John- _oh_. Of course. The fridge door was opened again, as if the other man had to make sure of what he'd seen. It was one of those strange habits people had. To recheck. It'd kill them all some day. Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face. He liked to figure out what John was doing by counting his steps when he was bored. He also liked to shoot at the wall. Hm. This was tricky. Decisions, decisions. He stayed put.

The sound of the fridge closing was followed by John coming back to the living room. He was not quite stomping his feet, but definitely worked up. "Is that a head?" He asked. The detective had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. _What else would it be? _"Just tea for me, thanks", he muttered, because he really liked his tea. John was seemingly unimpressed. "There's a head in the fridge", he said, and though it wasn't a question, he definitely was waiting for an answer.

"Where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock took a deep breath. This was all so very, very _boring_. He wanted tea and he wanted his socks and his mobile and he wanted someone dead. Preferably not in that order. _Bored, bored, bored_, and John was _still_ staring at him in plain disbelief. John didn't like heads in the fridge, and he didn't like experiments on his table, and he didn't like gun holes in his wall. _99% sure and rising._ Sherlock smiled.

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><p>He was tired, so very tired as he opened the door of Baker Street 221 and made his way up the 17 stairs to flat B. He wanted something to eat and then he wanted to sleep in peace. Just for a change. Of course, he mused, having Sherlock as a flat mate he'd probably find neither.<p>

He was proven right after exactly one second when three gunshots ripped through the air and left a devastating silence in their wake. John wasn't worried about Sherlock for a moment. Thinking about it, _Sherlock'_d better be worried now, because _John was_ _not in the bloody mood for this._ He stormed up the last steps, lips a thin line.

"What the _hell _are you doing?"

Sherlock was seated in an armchair in the living room, limp limbs dangling here and there, face slack. He muttered something inaudible, but it was too short for an explanation or an apology. Not that John had believed he'd get either for just one second. Nonetheless, he got rid of his shoes and came closer. "What?"

And suddenly Sherlock was on his feet, gun pointed at the wall and firing. John managed to cover his ears- barely- but he still heard the detective's shouting over the ruckus. "Bored, bored, _bored_!" It wasn't _really_ an explanation but somehow it still _was_. Unsatisfactory, but that was another point. John caught the browning that was tossed in his general direction and secured it with a sigh before he went and locked it away in his desk drawer. It was no use hiding it, nor was the lock, but he still felt better when he did it.

His flatmate had his hands on the wall now, next to a- _dear lord_. John closed his eyes for a brief moment, but when he opened them again, there was still a smiley face drawn on the brown wallpaper with yellow spray paint. He almost missed Sherlock's rant about criminal classes in his shock. "So you take it out on the wall?" he asked, more out of desperation than anything else.

"Oh, the wall had it coming", Sherlock said and flopped back on the sofa. Somehow he actually managed to look _graceful_ doing it, flapping dressing gown and sprawled curls and everything considered. It made John want to hit him. But what else had he expected really? "What about the Russian case?" He asked, making his way into the kitchen. He knew that it was pointless, hence the detective being here, but he asked nonetheless. Anything to prevent the shooting. Sure enough, Sherlock's answer was something along the lines _uninteresting, insult to my intelligence, bored. _He shook his head in exasperation.

"Anything edible?" He asked instead, stopping when he saw the table. It was littered with test tubes and petri dishes, not a single corner unoccupied. He decided that he didn't want to know. The possibility of food had made his hunger a very real thing, and the fridge looked beautiful in the dim light. Inviting. He opened the door and closed it again, unable to process what he had just seen.

_Take a deep breath, John. _Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe there _wasn't_ a sewered head in his fridge. _Yeah, right. Nice try. _He reopened the metal door and met cold eyes that seemed to stare up at him. The remaining contents of the fridge consisted of vials, tubes and half a glass of olives. _Shit_. He closed the door and reality caught up with him.

"It's a head", he whispered, and then, louder, "is that a head?"

"Just tea for me, thanks", was the reply. _Don't kill him, be rational, don't kill him._ John wasn't even _surprised _that there was a body part in the fridge- there _always_ was. Maybe it was this fact, the fact that things like this had become _normal_ to him, that made him angry. Maybe it was his empty stomach. Whatever the case, he rushed back to the living room, trying hard not to stomp his feet.

"There is a head in the fridge", he said. Sherlock didn't even look up, just kept staring at the ceiling as if everything else were more interesting than John. Maybe he really thought so. John waited. He could wait all night if he had to, and hell if he wouldn't. It took only a few more seconds of silence before he got his reply.

"Where else was I supposed to put it?"

And the statement sounded to completely rational, so coherent, that John couldn't even be mad anymore. Because Sherlock truly didn't know what was wrong with this situation. Because John wanted takeout and needed Sherlock to pay. Because he had known what he was signing up for with this man and still he'd stayed. He took a seat and stretched his legs, and Sherlock smiled.


	7. Outlet

****A/N: ****_When I checked on this story and saw that the number of comments had risen from 11 to 17 in only a few hours, I freaked out. This is so beautiful. Thank you all so much. It inspires me, too. Comments are faster updates, so there. Bribed yet?__  
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><p><strong>Description:<strong>_ Sherlock was 99% sure now that John was not an evil serial killer, but he didn't like uncertainty, and he felt it was his utmost duty to confirm his investigations from time to time. / John went and locked the weapon away in his desk drawer. It was no use hiding it, nor was the lock, but he felt better when he did it._

_Set at the beginning of Episode 3, The Great Game, when Sherlock is bored.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Outlet<strong>

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><p>"Or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!"<p>

The words were harsh, angry, and out before Sherlock could stop them. This irritated him even more. What was it with John that got on his nerves like this? He didn't like it. Not one bit. With a scoff, he turned on the sofa, hugged his knees to his chest and pouted.

He heard John get up behind him, steps directed towards the door._ Now wait a second_. This was not how it was supposed to be. John should apologize and then they'd get over it and get dinner. Not _this_. He turned his head, albeit reluctantly. "Where are you going?"

John's face was the next unpleasant surprise. The man's lips were a thin line, jaw set, eyes blazing with something... _dangerous, _Sherlock thought, something that was calm and controlled and seconds away from losing both qualities in favour of an explosion. "Out." The word was sharp, voice flat, and it made Sherlock flinch. "I need some air." And with that he all but stormed down the stairs and onto the street.

For one second, Sherlock stayed where he was, feeling dumbfounded. What had made John react like that? Then bitterness came up to swallow him and he groped at the cushions, angry with himself. He felt just about ready to grab the gun again, but this time he wouldn't restrict himself to the wall. John's bookshelf seemed like a favourable option right now. He smiled, despite himself, then scoffed. Where had his rationality gone to all of a sudden?

A knock on the door had him look up. Mrs Hudson. The door was open, why did she bother? "Huhu. You two had a little domestic?" She held up a green plastic bag and made her way through the general chaos and into the kitchen. John should really clean up more, Sherlock thought. Where was he going anyway? Curiosity quickly got the better of him and he got up, walked over the couch table and pushed the curtains aside to look outside.

John was just crossing the street below, an angry edge to his stride. He was going west. _Pub it is, then. _

"Look at that, Mrs Hudson." He tilted his head to the side. Look at _what_, exactly? At John walking away from him? The thought stung and he quickly dismissed it. "Quiet, calm, peaceful." He sighed. Obviously his own life was anything but that. "Isn't it hateful?"

Behind him, the woman unpacked the last contents of the shopping back onto the table. "Oh, I'm sure something will turn up, Sherlock." She came back into the living room to smile at him, and he had to look away, irritated with himself. "A nice murder, that'll cheer you up." She was right, of course. Why did that thought make him feel guilty? He looked out the window again, but John had disappeared into the night. _Stupid stupid stupid._ The man had to learn to control his emotions better. "Can't come too soon", he muttered and finally turned away.

"Hey! What have you done to my bloody wall?" Mrs Hudson was staring in shock at the paint and the bullet holes, and Sherlock had to supress his smirk as he spun around to admire his work. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" She said and huffed down the stairs to her own flat. Sherlock's grin widened. _That'd make John mad_. Which made him feel happy, right now. _How strange._

With a last sigh he abandoned the wall in favour of the kitchen. He never got that far.

A ball of red-hot flames burst through the windows. The noise was deafening and the brute force of the explosion had him fall, hands coming up to cover his face instinctively. He felt bits of debris and glass on his back and all around him and a part of him thanked the heavens that he hadn't been standing in front of one of the windows when it happened.

However, a much bigger part of his brain was fully occupied with _screaming._

Because John had left the flat, angry with Sherlock and the world, and only seconds later everything had blown up into Sherlock's face. Because there it was again, that dark pit that he had tried so hard not to look into. The one thing that had the possibility to kill him right here, whether he liked to admit it or not.

He blacked out.

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><p>"Or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!"<p>

The words were harsh and forceful and they stung incredibly. John stayed frozen in his chair for a moment, then another. This coming from_ Sherlock_, who did nothing but insult people all day long? Sherlock, who was lying on the sofa now, his back turned. John pursed his lips. Well, if the man wanted to play like this, he could do that. John would have none of it.

He got to his feet in time to realize that his hands were shaking. He hadn't been this furious for quite a while, and it was unsettling. Forcefully controlling his steps, he strode to the front door, grabbing his coat on the way. From the corners of his eyes, he saw Sherlock rise his head, expression incredulous. "Where are you going?"

It was all John could do not to shout at him. "Out," he snapped. "I need some air." He almost lost it right then and there, but managed to run down the stairs past Mrs Hudson and out the door before he took a moment to compose himself. _Deep breaths. In and out. He didn't mean it. _But he did, John thought bitterly, and that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Sherlock wasn't like this for the purpose of being mean. He was like this because he thought that he was _right_.

His legs carried him across the road and down the next street, already on his way to the pub, with his mind struggling to keep up. He didn't want to feel like this because of some silly argument with his irritated flatmate. Sherlock was bored is all. _But that doesn't give him the right to take it out on me, _John thought and hissed through his clenched teeth. _And it bloody well doesn't give him the right to shoot at the wall with an illegal browning._

Almost without his help, his feet turned left at the next corner, away from the pub. He pulled out his phone and punched the buttons with more force than it was neccessary. His hands were still shaking. _Fuck._

The phone was picked up after the third ring. "Yes?"

"Sarah?" He stopped to take a deep breath. "Look, I know you're mad at me right now, but can I come over for a bit?"

There was a short moment in which John held his breath, right hand a fist on the nearby wall. Then the woman spoke. "Sure. I'll see you in a few."

"Yeah." He smiled in spite of himself. "See you."

If part of his brain registered the explosion that shook the ground a few hundred meters behind him, it didn't make itself known. He all but ran through dark alleyways, wishing for nothing but a few hours to escape this insanity that his life had become. A few hours with a sane person.

He should have known then, he really should have. Because when had it ever been easy?


End file.
